Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

Tara whistled. “Who was he afraid of?”

“His Jewish subjects,” Masada said. “Herod was the son of an Edomite slave who converted to Judaism. He took advantage of internal Jewish fighting to convince Rome to make him king of Judea. He even married a Jewish princess, Mariamne the Hashmonaean, but the Jews still hated him.”

“Over there,” Ness pointed, “archeologists found a ritual bath that meets the strictest religious rules. The larger ruin further back is the main palace, which the Zealots later subdivided into small rooms when they holed up here at the end of the Great Revolt against the Romans. They found food, still edible seventy years after Herod’s death, and held out for almost two years. But the Roman army built the earthen ramp, dragged up siege machines, and broke through the wall.”

Tara asked, “That’s when the Zealots jumped off the mountain?”

“They didn’t jump.” He unfolded a green pamphlet. “Josephus wrote that the Zealots realized the Romans would be able to break through in the morning, so they met in the synagogue to discuss it.” He pointed at a ruined structure near the casement wall. “Josephus recites the speech given by their leader, Elazar Ben Yair: “ Brave and loyal followers! Long ago we resolved to serve neither the Romans nor anyone other than God, who alone is the true and just Lord of mankind. The time has now come that bids us to prove our determination by our deeds. At such time we must not disgrace ourselves. God has given us the privilege to die nobly and as free men. Let our wives die unabused, our children without the knowledge of slavery. While our hands are free and can hold a sword, let them do a noble service. Let us die unenslaved by our enemies, leave this world as free men in company with our wives and children. ”

Tara shook her head. “How sad!”

“How predictable,” Masada said.

Ness gestured at the fort. “They drew lottery to choose the ones who would help them die. In fact, Professor Yadin excavated eleven pottery shards with names. One of the pieces carried the name Ben-Yair.” He folded the pamphlet and stuck it in his pocket. “They believed in freedom, in national sovereignty on God’s Promised Land. They were the last free Jews until, two thousand years later, the modern State of Israel was founded.”

“They weren’t free,” Masada said. “They were captives of fanatic ideology that led to mass suicide. And now they are a myth, modern Zionism’s rallying cry: Masada shall not fall again! ”

“Do you want it to fall?” Ness asked.

“It will fall, because Jews can’t live in peace with each other.”

“There are challenges,” he conceded. “But this citadel was a Jewish stronghold, and these stones prove that Jews lived here in freedom while the strongest army in the ancient world spent two years trying to break in. That’s a fact. You agree?”

She shrugged.

“And because there’s so much ballista ammunition left in the fort, it’s clear that Josephus was telling the truth. The zealots allowed the Romans to build this huge ramp up to the wall because they didn’t want to hurt the Jewish slaves whom the Romans used to do the work.”

Masada saw through his reasoning. “A mass suicide is not an example of freedom, but of extremism that leads to a dead end. You people glorify death rather than admit that sovereignty is worthwhile only if it protects lives. You Israelis have a mental sickness: The Masada Complex .”

“True,” Ness said. “When President Nixon accused Golda Meir of suffering from the Masada Complex, Golda responded, We do have a Masada Complex. We have a Pogrom Complex. We also have a Hitler Complex. ”

The headphones crackled. Ness put them on and listened.

“Positive,” he said, “we’re on our way.”

“Look at the ramp,” Tara said. “What an engineering wonder.”

Ness flipped a few switches overhead and the engine started. “The Romans perfected siege technology. They knew how to break down the greatest fortifications and the most rebellious spirits.” The rotors sped up, and he raised his voice over the noise. “And to defeat the zealots on Mount Masada, Caesar sent his most brilliant general: Flavius Silva.”

Professor Silver kneeled at Faddah’s grave and promised him that, as soon as the State of Israel ceased to exist, his remains would be transferred to a new Palestinian National Cemetery in Jerusalem, along with all the other martyrs who had sacrificed their lives for the cause.

The helicopter reappeared over Mount Masada, but Silver paid no attention. With renewed clarity of purpose, he followed the rows of gravestones from the entry, looking for the four dead kids. He stopped at a grave that bore a familiar last name: Miriam El-Tal. The next grave was: Shlomo El-Tal.

Despite the heat, Silver felt a chill. El-Tal? Were these relatives of Masada? Perhaps her parents? Both were buried on 13.8.73. He calculated that Masada would have been ten or so. Could it be? Was this her kibbutz? He tried to remember if she had ever mentioned Kibbutz Ben-Yair.

The roar of the helicopter made him look up at Mount Masada, and it hit him. Of course! Her parents must have named her for the mythical mountain they had seen out of their window every day!

Masada. A young orphan.

As the initial shock passed, he realized this was a stroke of luck. Surely Masada knew about what happened in 1982, maybe even the name of the woman soldier who had killed Faddah!

Where was her little brother? She had always spoken of the three deaths in the same sentence, implying they had died together. But the next grave did not carry the name El-Tal. Was the boy only injured, dying weeks or months after the parents? The next few gravestones had other names. Had her brother been buried somewhere else?

Several rows down, he reached a stone dated 19.8.82. The next one was marked with the same date, and the next, and the one after that. The hostages! Four kids who would have lived but for the Israelis’ arrogance!

He wrote down the names, translating the Hebrew letters into English:

Orah Levtov

Dina Shemesh

Devora Almagor

Three girls. The fourth, he knew, would be the boy he had accidently pushed off the mountain. He jotted the first name:

Israel There was a nickname in parentheses: (“Srulie”)

And the family name: El-Tal

Silver stopped writing and peered at the stone:

Israel (“Srulie”) El-Tal

Son of Miriam and Shlomo

Murdered 19.8.82

Seventeen at his death

God Avenge His Blood

How could it be? He touched the letters, tracing each one, the concrete rough against the nerve endings of his fingertip. Israel (“Srulie”) El-Tal.

The roaring engine startled him. The helicopter descended from the mountain and flew across the arid valley, raising a dust storm that stung his skin in a thousand pricks. Fearing for his eye, he buried his face in his hands, bowing down until his forehead rested on the slab that covered Masada’s little brother.

“These tomatoes go to Europe.” Ness pointed at the greenhouses. “The hot weather and our advanced irrigation techniques give four crops a year. They use multi-level soil boxes to multiply field surface six times.” The helicopter hovered above a water tower. “The whole of Israel is smaller than Lake Michigan, so we have to produce more tomatoes per acre than any country in the world. Add efficient air transport and access to retail outlets, and you have speed and freshness. Within forty-eight hours of being picked, these tomatoes reach European consumers’ salad bowls.”